Written by Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario
A cloudy sky fetches a mid-week noon
The verandah in a fallen sneeze of dust,
Draws a bleak art of sickness on the day’s forehead.
In a home within a letterbox,
The monster multiplies in the abdomen,
Throwing up yesterdays laments in sleeping pills.
And a tap trades its last few drops,
To the smell of a half used saving foam. Waiting to rain.
On the grip of the wind’s magenta lips
Hangs his shirt with a lost body and a torn appetite —
The catalogue of clothesline in a miles stretch,
Kicks its barren foot to a mouthful of cries.
The body screams the absence of its chores
Folding the dilapidated obsessions,
into a sack of sundries.
How passion must burn?
The tongue renounces the thirst of trees
Untying patches along the cleft of thighs,
Leaving it to the conscience of uncontrolled things.
When the night stays confined on the eyes of orange moon,
Numbness toils squeaky as moles
Wild. Eccentric. Incomplete.
In a disagreement with every proportion of the verb —
reading Rilke before God.
Love makes the longing ring into an erratic telephone call —
Only the city crows scatter the quietness in the throat.
How can I write this love, complacent?
When death comes slow, slowly into the room.
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